I.
Day before Easter,
day after sacrifice:
On a screen I watch a church burn,
read of bombings in Ukraine,
overdoses and evictions. Suicides.
Above the bay,
the sun a bolus in the sky’s mouth.
Right now,
the entire city seems to be stretched on a cross.
My wife and sons are asleep,
and I am thinking about transformation.
What is the end before it is the end?
What could I change into?
What would the world need to resurrect?
II.
There comes a time in one’s life when one wants Time
to relax a little,
take off its shoes,
kick back and have a beer,
maybe talk about Steph Curry and the Warriors.
Basketball is a good metaphor for our lives:
the up and down,
the fouls, the ticking clock.
The numinous blows its whistle every time I touch the ball.
The crowd chants to take me out of the game.
My griefs,
lined up like a row of candles,
glow in their gold on the bench.
III.
Easter morning,
and I appear not to have risen from my body—
Here I am in this country
like air in the earth.
The sky this dawn blank as a cracked egg.
The great bunny of sorrow hops once more down Dolores Street.
If you put out a plate of carrots,
she will leave you a full basket.
You can carry it with you
up the steep hill of this life—
it will never lighten.